Jesus Would Make One Heck of a Better Husband Than My CharlieBy: Peggy Kitzmiller

I don’t know about the rest of you ladies, but judging from what I’ve heard about Jesus, I think he’d make one heck of a husband. I mean, as an infallible messiah he’d have to be at least a step up from my spouse Charlie.

I’m not sure what kind of vocational niche Jesus would fit in today’s contemporary society, but I bet it would come with a lot more prestige and earn a bigger paycheck than Charlie’s job at the soda straw factory. In fact, with his qualifications and connections I’d wager Jesus would own that damn factory. And he wouldn’t piss away half of what he made at the horse track betting out of his ass, that’s for sure.

Jesus would never stagger home at two in the morning as usual on our twentieth anniversary drunk on cheap beer with stripper glitter on his face. No, come hell or high water my Jesus would walk through the front door at six sharp every night just in time to enjoy the hot dinner I prepared for him. He’d surprise me by pulling a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and we’d sit down and talk like adults. He’d tell me about his day at the factory, then listen intently as I told him about that afternoon’s Oprah. Never once would he make cow noises as I chewed my food or tell me to shut my ‘fat, ugly face’ because it ‘fucked with his digestion’. Instead, Jesus would compliment my cooking and tell me he loved me just as I was, for the person I am inside. “That’s all that matters,” he’d say, “Now how about some chocolate cheesecake?”

When it was time to hit the hay, Jesus and I would cuddle and eskimo kiss before falling blissfully asleep wrapped in each other’s loving embrace, and if he needed to expel gas he would discretely excuse himself from the room rather than farting in bed and pulling the covers over my head like a juvenile jackass. It would be like heaven on Earth. We’d sleep the whole night through until the soft strains of a Phil Collins or Chris de Burgh song woke us from the clock radio, and not once would my sleep be rudely interrupted by a sweaty Jesus, reeking of B.O. and Winston Regulars, mounting me like a ten dollar hooker at four in the morning.

Jesus would be romantic. His idea of an intimate evening together wouldn’t consist of spending three hours planted on the couch watching football and eating junk food followed by a session of wham bam thank you ma’am over the coffee table if the Cowboys won. Jesus would probably take me to the movies, then somewhere nice for dinner, like Sizzler.